


Taking the World on Her Shoulders

by Adanska



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers: More than Meets the Eye
Genre: F/F, Humanformers, Ladyformers, Spoilers, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adanska/pseuds/Adanska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I heard about the inquiry,” she said, subdued voice barely louder than her uneven, shuffling steps. “And…I think we need to talk.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking the World on Her Shoulders

Rung hurried from the office, fucking sensible heels fucking clattering on the goddamn floors. Seething, Rodimus fisted her hands, searching futilely for just one more thing to break.

“Rodimus?” Like fucking clockwork, a wild Drift appeared. Ignoring how wrecked her voiced sounded, ignoring the fucking looming sense that the universe had just one more fucking stone to throw her way, Rodimus hunched further into the darkness, her hands rhythmically clenching and loosening and fucking smoking from rage (not literally, not any more, that part of her long since burnt-out and broken, but oh, if only, the acrid stench of ozone, the clear burst of immolated oxygen--).

Drift, like usual, just fucking ignored caution and continued into the office. “I heard about the inquiry,” she said, subdued voice barely louder than her uneven, shuffling steps. “And...I think we need to talk.”

“About what?” Rodimus asked, falsely cheerful. “Do you have some spiritual advice about how I should proceed?” she mocked, hands jazzing out beside her head. “Do you think I should just think positively and take what the universe has given? People died!” Roaring, she whirled on Drift, fists at her sides, so ready to let fly. “People died, and it was my fault!”

“No, it isn’t!” Drift roared back. Slamming her hand out, she hit the door switch and shut them both inside the poorly lit office. “It’s not your fault,” Drift repeated, tired and worn as she collapsed back against the warped metal. Her hands trembled as she pushed her matted hair back; her skin was grey, her face was sheening with sweat. Rodimus took an automatic step forward, her hands itching to touch, to make sure Drift was okay (Drift, lying unmoving in a pool of blood, legs so fucking wrong).

“It’s mine.”

Rodimus paused. “By the All-Spark, Drift, it’s not your fault,” she snarled, yanking on her hair. “I know you think you’re the responsible one, but I’m the Captain! I’m the one who should have noticed!” She laughed, harsh and bitter. “Hell, I mean, it’s really fucking hard to miss a fucking giant of a phase-sixer hiding in the goddamn walls, I should win a fucking prize for this shit.”

“Not if it was me hiding it from you.”

She froze. “Excuse me?” she asked, numb. “I don’t get it. Hiding what from me.”

Drift wouldn’t look at her. “It’s all my fault,” she said, dead and empty. “It’s my fault you didn’t know, it’s my fault he was on the ship at all.”

She was slamming Drift against the door before she could even think, red and white straps cutting into her skin. “What did you do.”

>“I put him on the ship,” Drift said, bruised eyes still locked on the ground, not even flinching when Rodimus pressed harder, dug her knuckles into the swollen bruising on her face. “I had Shock and Ore smuggle him onto the ship the night before we left.”

“He’s been here since the beginning,” Rodimus whispered, horrified. “Why. Why would you do this?” She pulled back, slammed Drift harder into the metal. “Tell me.”

“I wanted to know what made him a phase sixer!” Drift snapped, her eyes flashing as she gripped Rodimus’ wrists, broken nails digging deep. “You don’t fucking understand, Rod, phase sixers are a fucking weapon that the Decepticons still have, and I wanted to fucking know how Megatron did it!”

“The war is over!”

“Yeah, it’s over for now!” She laughed, rough and ugly. “Primus rust it, Rod, you know as well as I do that no one really fucking believes that, least of all you. And what do you think will happen when Megatron comes back?” she demanded. “We’ll all go back to killing each other, and this time? I’d like it if we could muster up to his best and brightest without having to rely on dumb luck and lucky point-one’ers.

“So it’s my fucking fault, I take responsibility. Inquiry closed.”

Rodimus tore her arms away, Drift’s nails leaving gouges in the skin. “I can’t fucking believe--I can’t look at you right now.” Walking away, she paced back and forth, fingers pressed to her lips. “I can’t fucking deal with this right now. I have several funerals to officiate.” Changing her walk path, she quick marched over to her closet, ripping out her fucking dress uniform and it’s fucking chest candy and the gaudy-ass matrix cape that proclaimed her a Prime (she refused to this of Drift dressing her, refused to think of all the times she woke up with its plush velvet covering her while Drift worked away; she refused to think about any of it). She ripped her battle-ruined clothes from her body, snarling whenever she scraped a bruise or abrasion, and yanked the uniform over it.

Drift was still where she’d left her, slumped against the flame wreathed door. “You,” she started, and stopped, jaw clenching. Drift stared her down, glassy eyed, her skin almost corpse-like and her legs shaking as they tried to keep her upright; she hated that that could still twist her heart. “Just--stay here. If I have to hunt for you, I will make you pay, believe you me.” Walking out, she shut the door--and her heart--behind her.

Half-way through the memorials, something jogged its way loose from the constant roar in her head. ‘I take responsibility.’ The last time Drift’d said that, it was to shift all the blame for all of Ultra Magnus’ paperwork getting suspiciously crunched from Rodimus to herself. Drift was stupid careful with her words, except when she was tired, or frustrated, or hurt; and even then, it was less not-careful so much as far too truthful.

“You had help. I want their names.” Balling up the heavy pretentious cape, Rodimus chucked it aside the moment she crossed the threshold, her boots only a moment behind. Halfway out of her jacket, she realised she couldn’t see Drift, and snarled. “All Spark corrode it, I fucking thought I told her to stay here!”

“Shock...and Ore.” Whirling about, she saw Drift sprawled out in the corner, hidden partially by the desk but still within line of sight of the door, a small gun held lax in her unbroken hand. She looked marginally better, but that was like saying that Ultra Magnus was a little anal retentive (if she kept joking about it he would be fine, no matter how illogical that was, because Ultra Magnus was too tough of a bastard to fucking die, okay). Breathing still laboured and heavy, she inched her way back up the wall, sweat beaded up and rolling down her sharp cheeks. “That’s it. My idea, my execution, my responsibility.”

“Bullshit.” She stabbed a finger at Drift. “Bull. Shit. I buy that you did this, were involved with this, that you did this for the fucking ‘Autobot cause’ or whatever, but I do not buy that you’ve been doing it all alone this whole time. I want names, Drift; as your captain, as your girlfriend, I deserve that much.”

Drift flinched like she’d actually lost control and slapped her. “It was just me. I take responsibility.”

“You sound like a broken record.” She grabbed Drift by the collar, something small and cold and metal twisting up between her fingers and the fabric as she twisted it tighter. She was torn, part of her wanting to push Drift back into the bedroom, back onto their bed, to just sit on her until Ratchet’s miracle work had time to get the ball rolling and she looked less like death, and the other part of her wanting to just hit her for everything and everyone, hit her until everything stopped.

She compromised. Pulling them about, she shoved and sent Drift stumbling into the chair, pushing back until she had her pinned against the wall. She didn’t loosen her hand, held her firm. “See, I know you’re fucking lying to me, Drift. You never ‘take responsibility’ unless you’re covering for someone, and I would know, frequently being the person you covered for; when it’s actually something that’s just your fault, you just say you fucked up. And for all your skill and smarts, you would’ve needed help getting anything out of Overlord.” She pressed harder, felt uneven scar tissue against her knuckles and dug them in harder, ignoring Drift’s pained hiss, the grimace twisting her features, the fresh beading of sweat along her temples. “Stop. Fucking. Lying to me!”

A flash. Heat coalesced around her hand and burst like a thunderclap, a bright ball of flame gusting outwards before collapsing. Rodimus recoiled; Drift choked, bowing forward as she sucked her ribs up and back, a wounded noise strangled and faded in her throat. Drift sat there, sagged over and panting, shirt still smouldering around the cherry-red lines of a chain, a pendant so hot it was a white sun dangling down. “Shit, Drift--I didn’t know I could still--are you alright?” She wanted to touch her, her hands shaking from it; she wanted to not touch anything ever again, lest she cause more pain.

“I take responsibility,” Drift whispered, flinching when Rodimus chucked the only glass that had escaped her tantrum earlier right passed her head, glass exploding like confetti into her hair, over her scraped and bruised shoulders. “I did it, I am responsible, it’s my fault.”

Rodimus dropped to her knees, the heavy black canvas protecting her from the worst of the shards. “Please,” she begged, cupping Drift’s cheeks, her thumbs tracing the same path they’d taken almost a year ago after Delphi, stroking the same delicate and bruised skin under her eyes. “Please, just tell me. I know you had to have had at least someone involved in security, science, and interrogation, and even if you knew from the beginning, even if this was all your huge master plan, I know you couldn’t’ve been the reason for him getting loose, you were with me and Perceptor when the alarms went off, you were with me all night and all day, I know you didn't do this just tell me who worked with you and I swear, everyone will get what they deserve just please,” she begged, voice cracking, desperate, “Please Drift, just stop lying to me.”

Drift met her gaze, eyes watering and face crumpling even as she said, so very even “I take full responsibility for everything, it was just me working alone--”

Getting up, Rodimus left her in the chair and locked herself in the private room. Later, her throat sore from screaming and her head sore from sobbing, she walked back into the office and folded herself back into her uniform, folded away the woman mourning both her girlfriend and all the people who died or were dying under her watch until she was just the captain and nothing more.

Drift stood at the doorway, silent and impassive. “I’m so, so angry at you,” Rodimus said, almost conversationally. Touching Drift’s shoulder, she waited for the other woman to look at her, and lifted her head. A hand gently cupped her jaw, lips pressed lightly to hers, a simple connection; a last kiss, far chaster than she would have ever guessed. Clinging to the hand, she brushed their mouths together one last time, and sagged back, composed again in the time it took her to open her eyes (if her eyes were a little watery, if Drift’s were red, well, no one would ever know besides the two of them).

“Let’s go,” she said, and strolled out, Drift her omnipresent (for only a little longer) shadow at her heels.


End file.
